“No,” she said softly. “Just tired. Very tired.”
She lived only a few houses away—a small place with peeling paint and a porch light that flickered like it might give up at any moment. I walked beside her, letting her lean on my shoulder. She felt lighter than she should have.
Inside, her house smelled faintly of cinnamon and old books. Everything was clean but sparse, as if she owned only what she truly needed.
She insisted on making me hot cocoa. Her hands shook as she stirred it, and she cut a sandwich in half, apologizing that it wasn’t much.
I took it like it was something rare.
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